Dear Sir IV
It is early morning
but I am stuck in late night
and the transition from worrying the carpets
to falling between my sheets
is lost in the embrace of these
riotous stacks of paper,
shifting and settling before me.
I have moments of
tangible restlessness and fill the spaces
between your words and my own
with motion – chair fidgeting,
nail biting, chain smoking –
but the weight of it
does nothing to still my rapid breath.
To answer your question,
I am confident that not a single one of us
knows who we are.
I’ve come to think I am
something just short of anything spectacular,
just a sheep in wolves’ clothing
and for all of my posturing
the fact remains
that I am twilight through and through –
down feathers, fall leaves.
Though I am built of sturdy things –
iron scraps and inch-thick bolts
someone in the factory miscalculated
and stuffed me full of jellyfish
and overripe peaches
and fuzz from the underbelly
of a fresh-hatched jay.
To be fair, I might be a catastrophe,
the pained look a public speaker’s face as
they struggle to find the rest of their words,
hands jammed in their pockets.
Perhaps though, I am none of those things.
Maybe I am just a girl without a motive.
Jessica Dawson is a modern-day Wendy. She lives in California with Peter Pan, a baby bear and a future supreme court justice. Influenced by Richard Brautigan, William Carlos Williams, Rumi, and a desire to never be try to be Sylvia Plath, Jessica Dawson’s writing is a lyrical confessional. She abhors self-promotion but requires an audience at all times. She reads the dictionary for fun, speaks only in degrees of sarcasm and enjoys owning her children in Scrabble. Her first book of poetry, Fossil Fuels, is e-published by Words Dance Publishing.